 One of the hooded men was out of the scuffle and had me by the arm. Get moving, Jordan. What is this? We call it a rescue. Maybe I don't want to. Shut up, you fool. Now move. By that time, they were all around me, dragging me up the alley. Somewhere back, I could hear an alarm sounding and the shouts of more men running out of headquarters. But already, we had reached a side street where a light field truck was waiting, its motor running. The hooded figures piled me in. The driver put it in gear, wheels spun, and we were careening off down the narrow winding streets.